


Prompts on A Plane

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Fashion & Couture, Humor, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thus ends my career as a model, then.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prompts on A Plane

A/N: I recently had a few long flights, so in anticipation of being bored on the plane [I posted a prompt-prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=54297444#t54297444). I asked for prompts of any nature, so long as it was understood that the length and mood of the fills would be unpredictable. I got fourteen prompts and managed to fill eleven. Aaaaaand these are them.

 

 

 

 **PROMPT: How about S/J realize their are in love while slow dancing?**

   
Sherlock placed his hand between John’s shoulders, just below the nape of his neck, and pulled him closer. John was having a difficult time concentrating on their simple box-step; Sherlock seemed even taller, now that the distance had been closed between them. On the stage, the singer crooned, _Earth angel, earth angel...will you be mine..._  
   
Unashamed, John pushed his face against Sherlock’s neck, the tip of his nose fitting into Sherlock’s jugular notch. “I...I think I just realised how I feel about you. I mean, I knew it before...but I couldn’t dare to feel it, until I knew you felt the same way.”  
   
Behind John’s head, Sherlock deftly curled his first two fingers into the sleeve of his coat. He pinched the photograph he’d concealed there, and slipped it out to peek at it. A perfectly symmetrically-decorated Christmas tree and precisely-hung tinsel garlands provided the background for the Holmes family picture; Sherlock and Mycroft, with their mother between them. On either side, aunties and uncles, and in front of them, little cousins.  
   
 _I’m just a fool...A fool in love...with you._  
   
“You do feel the same way, don’t you?”  
   
Sherlock gently led John, shuffling them to a less crowded spot on the dance floor. “Your powers of deduction are improving all the time, Doctor Watson. Of course I do, how could you doubt it?”  
   
John tried to snuggle even closer as they swayed to and fro. Sherlock snuck another look at the photograph. In front of and slightly to the right of Sherlock, an image of John slowly reappeared, at first ghostly, but finally solid and seamlessly re-integrated. Sherlock smiled fondly at the sight of that hideous wooly Christmas jumper.  
   


 

*****  
   
   
 **PROMPT: Jim Moriarty seen from Moran's point of view**

   
Moran alone wants Moriarty living happily.  
Moran alone wants Moriarty living.  
Moran alone wants Moriarty.  
Moran, alone, wants.  
Moran, alone.  
Moran.

 *****

 

 

**PROMPT: Mycroft and Molly meet and bond over putting up with Sherlock's antics.**

   
In unison: “He knows my weaknesses.”  
   


 

*****  
   
   
 **PROMPT: Moriarty/Sherlock Valentine's Day creepiness.**

   
“Post’s here.” John drops the bundle on his chair. Sherlock sits opposite and doesn’t move, just waits for John to sort through it.  
   
John divides the flat envelopes by country of origin. The packages he calls out individually. “Those geodes you ordered?” Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, so John sets it aside. He picks up the next one and turns it over. “This one’s from Amazon.”  
   
“I’ll take that one. It’s the defibrillator.”  
   
Why Sherlock wants that right away, John doesn’t know, or want to. While Sherlock pulls the knife from the mantle to cut open the tape, John picks up a parcel quaintly wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. “The return address on this one just says ‘JM.’”  
   
Sherlock drops the defibrillator. “Give it here.” John hands the parcel over and Sherlock unties the twine.  
   
“Wait, is ‘JM’ Jim Moriarty? Don’t just open it!”  
   
“Relax, it’s not a bomb.” Sherlock unwraps the paper and discards the plain outer box. Inside is another box, bright red and in the shape of a heart. About three inches thick, it’s covered in satin, with pleated ribbon around the sides. Little red and gold ribbons embellish it without making it too gaudy.  
   
“It’s a heart,” says John, puzzled.  
   
“No, it’s a heart-shaped _box_ ,” Sherlock corrects. He lifts the lid, and quickly extends his arm. His nose wrinkles.  
   
“ _That_ is a heart.”

 

   
*****  
   
   
 **PROMPT: My prompt is simply to see Sherlock and John, stoned.**

   
 _A/N: The bad news is, drugs are one of my bulletproof squicks. The good news is, the vagaries of the English language still permit me to write a story about Sherlock being stoned._  
   
“That’s him! Oi!”  
   
Something stung the back of Sherlock’s head. A stone? No, when he heard it hit the pavement, it sounded more like a small chunk of concrete. Sherlock turned to see the culprit. There was no place to disappear, here where council flats rose from the flat lawns and pavements a hundred yards apart. But no one was trying to disappear. Three grinning boys stood and sneered.  
   
“Alright, great detective,” the oldest one spat, “can you deduce which one of us threw it?”  
   
The boys appeared to be six, eight, and ten. All clues pointed to their being siblings: the oldest one’s clothes fit him properly, whereas the other two wore t-shirts and trousers slightly too big. When he asked them all to take two steps forward, Sherlock observed that the younger two had wear on the soles of their trainers inconsistent with their gaits. Their hair was uniformly shorn, so there was nothing to cover their identical, protruding ears. Sherlock also noted their respective eye colours, asked to see the palms of their hands, and walked completely around the row of them.  
   
All of this was unnecessary, of course. As soon as he’d turned around, he’d known it was the youngest boy, based on the way the right sleeve of his t-shirt was hanging.  
   
He pointed at the boy, who snapped “Lucky guess!”  
   
“Now,” Sherlock leaned down so that he was closer to eye level with the little brats. “Who wants to guess which one of you is not your father’s son?”  
   


 

*****  
   
   
 **PROMPT: onesided!Mystrade (Because Lestrade has no idea**  
 **Mycroft exists, not because he doesn't like him.)**

   
 _A/N: This is not really a fill…it’s just what I came up with._  
   
Mycroft wouldn’t call himself an expert at this little game, at least not yet. But he had an instinct. He could feel that things had gotten comfortable between himself and Lestrade, and the time was right to try a little flirting.  
   
He deftly flattered Lestrade; anyone watching could see the effect it was having. He even placed a sly hand on Lestrade’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper a sweet nothing. Lestrade giggled.  
   
Mycroft hummed to himself. “I _am_ hard to resist, aren’t I?”  
   
There was a moment of quiet between them. Mycroft wasn’t entirely certain what would happen next. Would Lestrade try to flirt back, if left to his own devices?  
   
To Mycroft’s chagrin, he did not. Instead, he curled in on himself and made an agonized noise to indicate he needed the toilet.  
   
“Gregory, your timing is awful. I’ve just begun flirting with you and now I need to send you to the loo?” Mycroft’s eyes flicked to the eight bars at the bottom of the screen. All were a sickly yellow, except the one labeled “Bladder,” which was bright red. He sighed and clicked on Lestrade, then right-clicked on the toilet. Lestrade dashed into the bathroom, and his body became a blur of pixels as he seated himself.  
   
It turned out to be for the best. While Mycroft and Lestrade had been carrying on their friendly conversation, the neighbor boy had drowned in the swimming pool. Sherlock had arrived soon after, and was now standing by the pool, squawking repeatedly about the lack of a ladder.  
   


 

*****  
   
   
 **PROMPT: Mycroft/his dentist. The reason Mycroft didn't cancel his dentists**  
 **apointment to find the bruce paddington plans was because his dentist was**  
 **comforting and calming him down from the shock and failure of losing them.**

   
 _A/N: I couldn’t Brit-pick this because I was on a plane, but my understanding is that in Britain, everyone has access to the NHS, but if you have money, can get more posh medical care from private providers. Sorry if any of this story is distinctly un-British._  
   
The soft, airy cushions of the dentist’s chair sank beneath Mycroft’s weight, and for a moment he felt he might be completely enveloped were he to remain here.  
   
“Ready for your cleaning today, Mister Holmes?” The dental assistant unfurled a napkin and clipped it round his neck.  
   
“Quite ready, my dear Patil.” Mycroft gave her a thin-lipped smile. He was most definitely ready for a nice, long, relaxing session with Patil.  
   
“Would you care for a cinnamon-scented neck pillow?” the assistant chirped.  
   
“Please. Thank you.”  
   
As the assistant tilted Mycroft’s chair and adjusted the lamp over his head, she said, “Would you like the sunglasses?”  
   
“By all means.”  
   
“We have some headphones, if you fancy listening to a CD?”  
   
“What have you got?”  
   
“Sting, Sarah McLachlan, Elton John...”  
   
“Hmmm...Better not. Wouldn’t do not to be able to hear properly.”  
   
The assistant was checking her instruments now. “We have something else that’s new. It’s a spa treatment for your hands. Our associate Stella dips your hands in warm wax, and lets it dry, and when it peels off, your hands are super-soft. Would you like to try that?”  
   
“It sounds delightful.”  
   
“We’ll call her in, then.”  
   
Dental pick in hand, the assistant cooed, “Alright, Mister Holmes, time to open up for me.” She didn’t seem to notice the barely contained smirk he wore, just before opening his mouth.  
   
Then, her genial smile turned to a look of horror. “Dear God, Mister Holmes,” she gasped, “did you eat an _entire_ box of Oreos before you arrived?”

 

  *****

 

   
   
 **PROMPT: I would love some BAMF-y Lestrade and John.**

   
 _A/N: I was on the plane trying to come up with an idea for this, when I looked over at my SO playing a role-playing game on his DS. So I wrote this._  
   
A THUG APPEARS!  
   
LESTRADE ATTACKS THE THUG  
   
THE THUG TAKES 12 DAMAGE!  
   
THE THUG CALLS FOR HELP  
   
BUT NOTHING HAPPENS!  
   
LESTRADE ATACKS THE THUG  
   
THE THUG TAKES 5 DAMAGE!  
   
THE THUG USES “KNIFE”!  
   
LESTRADE DODGES!  
   
LESTRADE CALLS FOR HELP  
   
JOHN WATSON APPEARS!  
   
JOHN WATSON ATTACKS THE THUG  
   
THE THUG IS IMMOBILIZED!  
   
LESTRADE USES “HANDCUFFS”  
   
THE THUG USES “KICK”  
   
LESTRADE TAKES 2 DAMAGE  
   
JOHN WATSON USES “PISTOL WHIP”  
   
THE THUG IS UNCONSCIOUS!  
   
LESTRADE AND JOHN WATSON DEFEATED THE THUG!  
   
LESTRADE GAINED A LEVEL!  
   
TOUGHNESS INCREASED BY 1  
   
LEADERSHIP INCREASED BY 2  
   
BAMF!NESS INCREASED BY 1  
   
WISDOM INCREASED BY 1  
   
FOXINESS INCREASED BY 0  [ALREADY AT MAX LEVEL]  
   


 

*****  
   
   
 **PROMPT: Her real name is actually Anthea. She's not sure what possessed her to give Dr. John Watson her real name instead of the one she was using that week, but she did. Erm, introspective Anthea, maybe John and Anthea being BAMFs together, maybe John finds out that it is her real name, and did I mention I love angst? So anything really, just run with it!**

   
   
Once the stretcher had been loaded into the ambulance, John managed to tear his eyes from it and face Mycroft.  
   
“I am so, so sorry,” he said. “You must understand, there was no reason to expect anyone but the killer would walk through that door.”  
   
“I understand.”  
   
“I can’t...I know I should have hesitated, for just the split second it would have taken to realize it was her.”  
   
Mycroft folded his hands. “Doctor Watson, you spent years in Afghanistan. There, a split second’s hesitation would make the difference between killing and being killed.”  
   
“That’s true, but it’s no consolation to her. Or you.”  
   
The ambulance sped off, its siren screaming.  
   
“I have to ask you,” John said. “What was her real name?”  
   
Mycroft did not stop watching the ambulance until it disappeared round a distant corner. “Anthea,” he finally said.  
   
“She told me her real name?”  
   
Mycroft’s gaze snapped to John. “She told you her real name?”

 

   
*****  
   
   
 **PROMPT: Holmes and Watson are investigating a fashion related crime and they find**  
 **themselves backstage at a fashion show. Someone mistakes Sherlock for a male**  
 **model and just about pushes him onto the stage. Hilarity ensues?**

Sherlock was beginning to suspect that not one but two of the models were diamond smugglers, though he could not be sure until he could see the way they wore their hair to the airport. He turned to John to tell him that he’d gathered all the data he was able to, here, only to find that John had disappeared. Instead, he found a middle-aged, orange-skinned man in a pink button-down shirt with ridiculous lapels, appraising him and reaching for him.  
   
“Good God, is that what Issey Miyake is doing these days?”  
   
Sherlock’s mouth opened, then closed.  
   
“What are you waiting for?” the orange man snapped. “You’re up!” He gave Sherlock a shove, sending him stumbling through the curtain.  
   
The lights were blindingly bright. Beyond them, Sherlock could barely make out the thrumming, expectant audience. Must think quickly. Mustn’t cause a disruption. He began to stride down the catwalk. Then he remembered having seen this done on the telly, and instead began to _strut_ down the catwalk. All around him, music blared. Sherlock discerned the lyrics: _A little less conversation, a little more action_... He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to acknowledge the audience somehow, maybe wave, play to anyone in particular. So he just gave a few curt but subdued nods. At the end of the catwalk, he paused, pivoted, and for a moment, allowed the rapt attention of the crowd to wash over him. Light and energy were bombarding him from every direction. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.  
   
One more pivot, and he was traipsing back down the catwalk and through the curtain.  
   
John was waiting for him, arms folded. “Keep a low profile, you said.”  
   
“John, it was incredible. Everyone was paying attention to me! They were all staring, just...entranced by every detail of me. It was like...”  
   
“Like having three thousand of me in the crowd?”  
   
“Yes! Suddenly everyone thought I was brilliant!”  
   
“Hmm. Thinking of pursuing a career in modeling, then?”  
   
Sherlock tugged self-consciously at his cuffs and the hem of his jacket. “Well, from a purely practical standpoint, it would supplement my income, allow me to travel to do my work, establish a whole new set of connections. It would make an excellent front...”  
   
“Too bad no one wants to hear models talk.”  
   
“They what?”  
   
“Models. They’re paid to look good, and nothing else. No one takes anything seriously that comes out of a model’s mouth.”  
   
“Ah. That’s inconvenient. Thus ends my career as a model, then.”  
   
“Indeed. It was brief, but it shook the fashion world to its very foundation. Can we go get some dinner now?”

 

   
*****  
   
   
 **PROMPT: Sherlock/John/Hermione Granger as a threesome. I'll let you figure out**  
 **why she's in the muggle world, and if it's at all relevant to the fic!**

   
Hermione Granger gazed with bemusement at the two men seated across from her. The tall, skinny one with the disdainfully folded arms had the too-cool-for-the-room air of a teenager compelled to accompany their parents on some outing. The blonde one didn’t look entirely comfortable, either, but more like he suddenly suspected that he’d just gotten on the wrong train.  
   
The room was cozy, made cozier by the stacks of books which spilled off the shelves and were now piling up on the windowsills and her desk. Her collection was as varied as it was enormous. Everything from Joseph Campbell to _Catcher in the Rye_ to the _CIA World Factbook_. No longer visible was the nameplate on the edge of the blotter, upon which was engraved “Hermione Granger, Muggle Consultant.”  
   
“Doctor Watson, I don’t think I completely understand why you’re asking me to advise your colleague,” she said. “The service I provide is for members of the magical community who need to learn how to interact with muggles or integrate into muggle society. You both _are_ muggles. I don’t even know how you managed to find my office, frankly.”  
   
Sherlock snorted. “It was quite simple--”  
   
John interrupted him. “I apologise for the misunderstanding. I did not know it was a requirement for your clients to be magic-users. I thought the only requirement was that they not understand how to interact with ordinary humans.”


End file.
